This summer we went to Lake George. I told the kids they could each take one suitcase and fill it up as they saw fit. I advised them that it was a short trip, and they should bring the barest of necessities.
Just the basics
Author: Merri Petrovits
Not a fan
As my final week of summer vacation draws to a close, there was a moment of panic when I realized I hadn’t yet taken my kids to ocean.
Just like last summer.
What kind of New Englander mom fails to take her kids to the ocean for the second summer in a row? Especially when she’s a teacher with her summers off?
My solution: Ocean Beach, New London. Although Doug hated the idea, I dragged him along with us.
When I was a kid, my mom took us to the ocean religiously. She would wake us up at 5 so we could be on the road before the morning highway traffic set in. Then, after we were sun-stroked, exhausted and dehydrated, salt in our hair and sand in our bathing suits, we’d pile back into the car just in time to avoid the 5:00 traffic.
Although those were some of my happiest childhood memories, this time I wanted something more. I wanted the moonlight on the waves. I wanted the party at the boardwalk. I wanted the entire ocean experience. So I booked a room at the Holiday Inn.
Ten seconds into his tour of our hotel room, Doug made a grisly announcement.
“There’s no bathroom fan.”
It plagued him throughout our stay. As the moon cast its glow over the lapping waves from our table on the boardwalk, he shook his head over his seafood platter. “What kind of establishment would build a hotel without a bathroom fan?”
When we returned from our trip, I received a survey from the InterContinental Hotels Group. Doug was adamant that his voice be heard.
Somewhere at IHG Headquarters, an associate received the following survey: “The room was lovely; however, I felt compelled to give it a low rating based on its absence of a bathroom fan. This might seem beyond a basic amenity to you, but I assure you after my husband’s morning coffee, my entire family paid for it.”
One more question followed after I submitted the survey. “Would you like to post your response on our website?”
Heavens no, I clicked. My life is far too private for that.
It’s in the bag
While visiting a longtime friend last night, my friend reentered her apartment, clutching her little white dog’s leash with one hand, scratching her own head with the other.
“That’s weird,” she said. “He didn’t have to pee. He must have gone somewhere in the apartment.”
We surveyed her tiny apartment for puddles, but found nothing.
When it was time to leave, I gathered my things and grabbed my purse. A river of pee ran down the front of it and left a pool at my feet.
“Why don’t you just throw it out?” asked Doug the following morning as I woefully dunked my purse, its black leather worn and faded, into a bucket of Murphy’s oil. “You’ve had it for as long as we’ve been married.”
As long as we’ve been married, he said. Bah. That’s a mere thirteen years. What Doug didn’t realize is that purse was swinging from my shoulder way back when he was trying to convince Mr. Harvey he didn’t get stoned before his 8 a.m. class.
It was 1989, and I was at the West Farms Mall with another longtime friend, Antonella Calabrese. We were walking around with no destination or nothing in particular to buy, because we were sixteen, and we actually had time to do that. We passed by Wilson’s Leather when I spotted the purse in the window.
“Oooooh, I like that,” I commented, hair teased across my head like an oriental fan, the fringe on my black leather jacket and boots dancing with every step.
Hours later, on the way out of the mall, Antonella instructed, “Stay right here. I forgot something.”
Before I could respond, she dashed into Wilson’s and came out with my purse.
“I believe this is yours,” she said, and forked it over with a grin.
Antonella was always generous like that. Even before she became a big success and actually had anything to give, she still found a way to scrape together her waitress tips to bring smiles to the faces of people she loved. She never asked for anything in return. I think for her, the feeling she gets from giving has always been payment enough. You don’t meet a lot of people like that.
A near thirty years later, it’s still my favorite purse. Partially because I love the way leather feels when it’s soft and worn, and partially because it’s big enough to hold my kitchen sink (along with the microwave, refrigerator and a small toaster oven). And even as it prepares for retirement on my picnic table, slightly reeking of Murphy’s oil-scented dog urine, it’s still my favorite purse because it comes with that story—and along with it, a very important message about friendship.
Ant, I guess what I’m trying to say is…can I have a new purse?
Crunch these numbers.
Two weeks of laundry, three pairs of boys’ underwear.
I wish I wasn’t so good at math.